


Lines in the Sand

by Aziel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziel/pseuds/Aziel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a kingdom shattered by strife, once great houses have fallen to ruin, and people everywhere suffer from fear and starvation. The return to Targaryen power could mean more war or the prospect of a long awaited peace, but first they must contend with a destabilized power base. This is the landscape that Jon Snow must now learn to navigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_“If history teaches us anything, it is simply this: every revolution carries its own seed of destruction. Those empires that rise will one day fall.”_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Do you ever plan on opening it?”

“Not if I can help it.” Silence, and then, “Those people are nothing to me.”

“Then may I open it on your behalf?” Val, the woman many called the Wildling Princess, truthfully didn’t need permission – she was prone to doing as she pleased. “They sent this through riders – too few ravens left north of King’s Landing, I fear.”

Jon shrugged as he continued chopping wood. “Burn it, for all I care. I have more important things to do than answer flowery letters from the capital.” He wasn’t lying either. The North – or at least what was left of it – was a barren wasteland. The invasion of the White Walkers had forced nearly everyone to flee south, and the ones who had survived the journey had fled to White Harbor and the Riverlands. But White Harbor was barely standing, and the Riverlands didn’t have enough food to feed their own people, let alone Northern refugees. As one of the few survivors of the Night’s Watch, there was much work for Jon to do. The Wall might be gone, but homes and lands had to be rebuilt.

Including Winterfell.

Very little of it remained. Ramsay Bolton hadn’t left much behind except for charred ruins, and the following battles had damaged what was left of the castle. In the time since then, many had carted off the remaining stones to make shelters of their own.

Currently, Jon, several Northmen, and some of their wildling companions had made their home in the Broken Tower. Ironically, despite the damage it had once sustained, it was the only place with a mostly intact roof. But Jon hoped to make further repairs by the year’s end. Winterfell was the symbol of the Stark family, and with nearly everything north of it destroyed, it was now the edge of habitable territory. Though Alys Karstark and the Thenn had left several weeks ago to reclaim Karhold while another group was on their way to Deepwood Motte, it was still winter, and the heavy snows made travel very difficult. Last Hearth and the lands of the mountain clans were considered lost causes, at least until spring came.

“I shall open it then.” Val deftly broke the dragon seal and unfolded the small piece of parchment. Her eyes traveled over the words slowly – she was still learning how to read and write the common tongue. Mance had taught her as much as he could, but any official summons from court would be couched in more formal terms.

After a moment, she lowered the letter. “She is coming.”

Jon didn’t look up. “She won’t get far. It’s too cold, the snows too deep.”

“She will be riding her dragon.”

 _That_ grabbed Jon’s attention. Dropping his axe, he snatched the letter out of Val’s hand.

 

> _To Jon Snow, 1000th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch That Is No More. From Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and a Protector of the Realm:_
> 
> _I have matters to discuss with you. Since you refuse to come to King’s Landing, I will be making the journey to White Harbor, and from there, to Winterfell. I understand that resources are scarce, so please do not trouble yourself to make any preparations on my account. I will arrive at Winterfell in two months time._
> 
> _The other reason for my visit is to see Viserion. Drogon has been anxious at being separated from his brother, and no doubt Viserion feels the same. It will be good for them – and for us – to reunite, however briefly._
> 
> _Until then,_
> 
> _Daenerys_

 

Jon handed the letter back to Val. His face was pale and ashen. “You’ll soon be dining with a dragon.”

Val refolded the letter and tucked it into her fur cloak. “I have already been dining with a dragon. How will another be any different?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up his axe and resumed chopping. If his strokes were more desperate, Val did not remark upon it.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The day of the queen’s arrival dawned bright and clear. The grey, overcast sky had vanished, and for the first time in weeks, Jon saw the sun. It was still very cold, however, and the biting wind had not yet abated.

Jon had spent that morning in one of Winterfell’s massive, partially destroyed courtyards. Viserion had made his home near the Library Tower, a place rarely frequented by any save Jon. Viserion didn’t like the cold, but he seemed to receive some comfort from the many steaming pools that had appeared when the foundations of the tower had collapsed.

As dragons went, Viserion was surprisingly calm, at least compared to his brothers. He was beautiful – cream, gold, and fire. He responded well enough to Jon’s commands, though the one thing he refused, the one thing Viserion would absolutely not tolerate, were chains.

His men had initially wanted to tie up the dragon, but Viserion had reacted so badly that two men had nearly died from the attempt. Since then, Jon had allowed Viserion to remain free, and so far, the dragon had not broken his trust by attacking anyone else.

Right now, Viserion was curled up near the edge of a steaming pool. His chest rose up and down, and though his eyes were closed, Jon knew he was awake. And hungry.

Jon bit his lip. Game was scarce here, and what there was of it was not enough to feed his own men. On occasion, Viserion would fly further north where elk and deer were still in abundance, but it made Jon uneasy to let the dragon go off alone. There were still human survivors there, and he feared Viserion might hunt them instead.

“I’ll get you food,” he told the dragon. “It won’t be much, but at least you’ll have something in your belly.”

A pair of golden eyes stared at him. _I trust you_ , he seemed to say.

Jon sat next to his dragon, leaning into Viserion’s side. Even so far north, a dragon’s blood ran hot, radiating through the scales to heat the air around him.

Once, Ghost used to sit with him, just like this. On cold days, the direwolf would press into Jon’s side and share his body heat. But Ghost was long dead, and with him, part of Jon’s heart. While having Viserion around did ease his loneliness, it wasn’t the same.

But thinking of Ghost reminded him of other painful things. Of knives and a pyre. Of darkness and cold. Of betrayal and blood.

It had been ten years since he had died and then brought back to life again. In the years afterward, he had faced the future with no expectations, just a desire to make it through each day and see what tomorrow would entail. If anyone asked Jon where he saw himself in a year, he would not be able to answer. _Post-war restlessness_ was what Val called it.

Maybe Val was right. Despite the hardships of his early life, Jon had once burned with the flame of self-righteousness and moral obligations. He had believed in the Night’s Watch and what it stood for, and as Lord Commander, he had sworn to make a difference. He would go down fighting and die if he had to.

Jon had done precisely that. And against all odds, he had survived.

But now, with his whole life ahead of him, he realized that he had seen too much, had done too much. There had been nothing shiny or fulfilling about going into battle, and there was certainly nothing romantic about facing the aftermath.

“Lord Crow!”

He looked up to see one of wildling men wave at him from the opposite side of the courtyard. “What is it, Halleck?”

“A dragon has been sighted, Lord Crow. The queen’s nearly here.”

“I’ll be there shortly.” Jon stood and patted Viserion. “Hear that? Your brother’s coming.”

The dragon seemed to understand what he said because he perked up immediately. After Jon backed away, Viserion stood on his haunches before taking flight, no doubt wishing to greet his fellow dragon in the air.

Jon trudged back to the Broken Tower. He briefly considered getting changed – this was the queen, after all – but then he realized he didn’t own anything better. Most of his clothing had been mended so many times that it was practically threadbare.

To his surprise, the outer courtyard had been tidied, and both his men and the wildlings stood assembled near the front. Val was there too, and upon catching sight of him, waved a hand in acknowledgement.

Jon went to stand by her side. “This is rather...unexpected.”

“Even Free Folk understand the important of courtesy,” she admonished. “Just don’t expect us to kneel.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Patting her on the shoulder, he moved towards his fellow Northmen. “Duncan, is everything all set?”

Duncan Liddle, once a Night’s Watchmen like Jon, was from the mountain clan of Liddle. His youngest brother Rickard was also here with them, but The Liddle had not been heard from since the Wall had fallen. Duncan and Rickard believed their father was still alive, merely trapped by the winter snows in the mountains, but Jon was not as confident. “We have enough firewood, my lord, and we caught enough game to last us for two weeks at least, but the pickings are still spare.”

“It’s alright. She knows of our situation.” At least Jon hoped so. In her letter, Daenerys had told him not to worry, but Jon was never quite sure when it came to the queen.

“We also cleared away one of the rooms and made it as nice as we could. We found some wall coverings in another one of the towers, and we managed to salvage some of the grander furniture from the main keep.”

Touched, Jon squeezed Duncan’s arm. “Thank you.”

Duncan pushed back his windswept, dark hair. A handsome young man, he had given up the prospect of ruling Clan Liddle in order to join the Night’s Watch. Like Jon, he was now without a home and without a purpose. “Stannis was the only royalty I ever met. I wonder how a Targaryen will compare.” A second later, “I’m sorry, my lord. I meant no offense.”

Jon smiled at the former ranger. “None taken.”

In fact, Jon wondered the same thing. At least he had known Stannis, had shared bread with him, had fought and bled next to him, and eventually, had mourned for him. But he hardly knew his Targaryen relatives. His half-brother, Aegon, was content to ignore Jon’s existence, a sentiment Jon was only too happy to reciprocate. Daenerys knew him only slightly better, as she wrote him once every few months, but even then, she had never quite accepted him as she had Aegon. But to give the queen due credit, she had asked Jon to come south on more than one occasion, though Jon's response had always been the same –  that he couldn’t possibly get away, even for a moment. The people in the North needed his help, and just because there was no Wall didn’t mean that Jon’s duties had ended. The queen hadn’t agreed, but for the time being, she had promised to leave Jon alone.

Until now, that was.

When Aegon Targaryen had arrived in Westeros ten years ago, he had smashed Randyll Tarly’s army and quickly conquered the Stormlands. Soon after, Daenerys had arrived with her dragons and the remnants of the Greyjoy fleet. It might have been an ugly confrontation if not for Doran Martell brokering an accord between aunt and nephew, the details of which were still not widely known.

After joining with the Martells, the Targaryens had turned west to the Reach. With the Ironborn on one coast, Dornishmen from the South, and the combined Targaryen forces from the West, Highgarden had found itself besieged. Oldtown surrendered immediately to Aegon, with several Tyrell bannermen following suit. Cowed by dragons, Mace Tyrell agreed to surrender King’s Landing and hand over all Lannister men within the city. In return, the Targaryens had promised to end the Ironborn threat once and for all.

It had taken short work to deal with the Greyjoys. From what Jon had put together, the queen had discovered that Greyjoys had ultimately planned to betray her and steal her dragons. Somewhere between Mereen and Volantis, Victarion had burned to death, half his ships surrendering to Daenerys, the other half disappearing into the sea. Euron and Aeron Damphair had been executed, and with Theon and Asha already dead, House Greyjoy had been declared extinct. This had led to the ascension of House Harlaw, who had promised obedience, at least for the time being.

The Vale had quickly followed – the Lord Protector of the Vale bent the knee without much fuss, and though the Lords Declarant had grumbled at the bloodless surrender, winter had frozen all passes through the Vale of Arryn, the dragons were threatening to burn their food supply, and there was no hope of external support. The Westerlands, with hardly any army left, had no say in anything.

The North and the Riverlands were in such disarray that it had taken the Targaryens some time to figure out who was actually in charge. With Edmure Tully missing and Brynden Tully killed in battle, Jason Mallister had been raised as the new Lord Paramount of the Trident, and in exchange, he had agreed to support a Targaryen restoration to the Iron Throne. In the North, Stannis Baratheon had sworn to stand against the Targaryens, but winter had killed him before he could raise his sword against the dragons. Leaderless and frightened, his men had surrendered soon after.

The Northmen had held out the longest. Many still clung to the idea of a free North, but most able-bodied men were dead, and with winter already on their doorstep, food stores depleted by war, and the collapse of the Wall, the Targaryens and their dragons proved to be a welcome sight. Lord Manderly, the most influential man left in the North – and the one with the most to lose – had agreed to support the Targaryens, and in return, he had been declared the Warden of the North.

The Targaryens had determined that the Freys, as bannermen to the Tullys, would be left to the Riverlords to punish. Lord Mallister and his fellow lords had sat in judgment of the vast majority of the Frey family, many of whom had been summarily executed. The ones who survived had been exiled, including Edmure’s own wife, Roslin. In the meantime, the Twins would be held in trust by the Iron Throne until it was awarded to someone else.

Likewise, the Boltons had also been given over to the surviving Northmen, but unlike the Freys, they never made it to their trial, and the Dreadfort had simply been razed.

As for the Lannisters…the Kingslayer and his sister had been executed while the other members of that house were exiled to the Free Cities. Tommen, Myrcella, and Shireen had officially been cloistered away somewhere, but rumors were that they had quietly followed their parents to the chopping block. Only Tyrion, thanks to his service to the new king and queen, had been spared. But the Imp had been obliged to take a new name, for House Lannister of Casterly Rock was no more, its lands and income now split, half going to rebuilding the Riverlands with the other half shared between the Iron Throne and House Martell.

The Targaryens had been surprisingly even handed with their justice. Besides playing the Rains of Castamere during the execution of Jaime and Cersei Lannister, neither the king nor the queen had displayed a particularly vengeful nature. They had returned to Westeros with most of their enemies already dead, and of the ones still alive, most had suffered enough. With the Baratheon and Lannister houses now extinct, the Targaryens had turned a milder eye towards Houses Tully, Arryn, and Stark. The three houses had been stripped of their wardenships and their statuses as the paramount houses of their regions. Rickon, who would still be permitted to become the Lord of Winterfell, and Minisa, Edmure’s daughter and heir, would be raised as wards of the crown.

On their part, the Targaryens had applied themselves wholeheartedly in the war against the White Walkers. All three dragons had fought tirelessly for five years, and neither Aegon nor Daenerys had shied away from the front line. Thousands of men had come from the Reach, Dorne, and even the Free Cities, and with them had come food, medicine, and hope. What the North had always feared – that they would have to face things alone – had not come to pass.

Even now, the Targaryens had kept their word. Grains and fruit from the Vale and the Reach were being sent on a regular basis to White Harbor and the Riverlands. Dorne had sent their most talented engineers to help rebuild the ruins of once great castles while the Unsullied patrolled the refugee camps and hunted down thieves and rapists.

For all intents and purposes, the king and queen were proving to be thoughtful monarchs. The smallfolk sang their praises, the nobility were grateful for peace, and the Faith thanked the gods for their timely arrival. The Citadel had initially remained aloof, but they too had been forced to concede that at least for the time being, a return to Targaryen rule was best for the kingdom. It was as if people had forgotten Robert’s Rebellion had ever even taken place.

Of course, Jon was aware that both Targaryens were shrewd politicians as well, and based on what he had gleaned from the queen’s letters, there was more to their reign than simple generosity. Thankfully, they did not expect him to contribute in that regard, instead allowing Jon to remain in the North as their representative. There had been only one condition – that he remain unwed for the time being. The queen feared that if his Targaryen heritage became common knowledge, ambitious houses like the Tyrells would attempt another bid of power through Jon.

Jon had gladly agreed. He still considered himself a man of the Night’s Watch and felt obligated to maintain those vows. Marriage had never been a part of his plan. He had been tempted when Stannis had offered him Winterfall – and Val – but even then, before everything had gone dark, Jon had known that he was ultimately destined for the solitary path.

Daenerys had not accepted his reasoning. According to her, the Wall had fallen, the Night’s Watch was no more, and most importantly, Jon had already fulfilled his vows by dying. His subsequent rebirth meant that for all intents and purposes, he had a new life. But she had not pushed further, only promising to revisit the matter at a later time.

As Drogon descended from the sky, Jon realized that day had just arrived.

 


	2. Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_“All governments suffer a recurring problem: Power attracts pathological personalities. It is not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible.”_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Drogon landed, the earth trembled.

The massive, black beast snarled as he touched down, his every breath expelling fire. Daenerys had the good sense to land him further away, but even then, the assembled group could feel the heat emanating from the dragon. Viserion, on the other hand, remained in the sky. A moment later, Jon saw why; as soon as the queen dismounted, Drogon took flight again to join his brother.

Jon and his companions knelt as the queen approached. Only the wildlings remained standing, but they were respectfully silent.

Daenerys strode forward, her small form wrapped in silver fur. She graciously nodded at everyone’s obeisance before indicating Jon to stand.

He rose. “Your grace, I bid you welcome to Winterfell. I trust your journey here was without incident?”

She smiled. In that instant, it was if the sun had chosen that very spot in all of Westeros upon which to shine its brightest. Behind Jon, his men caught their breath in astonishment while the wildlings could only gaze raptly at their visitor.

Jon couldn't blame them. It was hard to ignore the sheer beauty of Daenerys. Despite her small frame, her face and figure were perfect examples of the female form. Her silver hair shone brilliantly in the winter sun, and her finely carved features were offset by flawlessly smooth skin.

But it was her eyes that drew and dominated, piercing eyes of the deepest purple, all the more compelling for being set off by thick lashes and arched eyebrows that carried more than a hint of arrogance. They scanned her surroundings with too sharp an intelligence for Jon’s comfort.

“It went well, thank you,” said Daenerys, her voice as rich as newly drawn milk. “It has been too long – three years at least since our meeting in White Harbor.”

“The lengthy parting was not of my choosing,” he replied. “But there's much work to be done in the North, though we've made some progress since our last meeting.”

She looked doubtfully at the massive ruins of the once great castle. “I can see that,” said the queen politely. “I know how pressed you are for resources, but I don't intend to linger long.”

“It is no trouble, your grace. I am most pleased to host you, though the accommodations here are…subpar.”

She waved away his remark. “A dry corner, preferably by a fire, is all that I need. I've lodged in far worse places.”

He didn't doubt it. He knew the queen had spent the better part of her life as a nomad in Essos.

Formalities complete, Jon led her down the row of assembled men as he made introductions. To her credit, Daenerys did not shy away from shaking their hands, praising each of the former Night’s Watchmen individually.

When it came time to introduce the wildlings, Jon brought Val forward last. Beautiful, tall, and golden in her white furs, she made a pretty picture under the gently falling snow.

He did not miss the speculative way Daenerys looked at her.

“I'm pleased to meet you at last, Lady Val,” said the queen.  “My nephew has mentioned how instrumental you were in helping bridge the cultural gap between the Free Folk and the Northmen.”

Jon held his breath as he waited for Val to respond. Her interactions with Selyse had always featured a snide undertone, though fortunately, Stannis’s queen had been too stupid to realize she was being mocked. Daenerys, on the other hand...

But Val received the compliment with a surprising amount of civility. “Thank you, your grace. But Lord Snow is too generous. The peace between the Free Folk and the Northmen is mostly due to his own efforts, of which he is too modest to speak.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows as if to say, _This is a wildling?_ “You must tell me more, Lady Val. Jon never speaks overmuch of himself, so what I do know of him, I must glean from his companions.”

“Later,” blurted Jon. “You're surely tired from your journey. It’s warmer inside, and the cook has prepared a hot meal.”

His aunt flashed him an amused glance before turning back to Val. “A splendid idea. I'm not as tolerant of the cold as my nephew is, so I would relish the opportunity to sit next to a fire.”

Jon dismissed his men and the wildlings before offering his arm to Daenerys, who slipped a small hand under his elbow. Val fell in step on the queen’s other side. “I hope you are partial to fowl and elk, your grace. It’s the only game to be found for miles.”

“I’ve never had elk,” said Daenerys, “so I shall be glad to try it.”

“I must ask at the wisdom of coming alone, your grace.” Jon had rarely seen Daenerys without one of her bloodriders accompanying her. “Despite our efforts, thieves roam even this far north.”

Daenerys was unconcerned. “My guards remained behind in White Harbor while I flew ahead on Drogon. With the roads so bogged down with snow, it would have taken over a month to make the same journey by horse.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Drogon is the only protection I need in the sky, and here, I have you, do I not?”

Something in her voice sounded odd. Though she did not despise Jon outright as Aegon did, there were moments when it seemed she could not decide between hating him for being a Stark or loving him for being Rhaegar’s son.  

But at least today, the queen was content to treat him like an honored relative.

“You will always be safe when I am near, your grace.” It seemed the safest thing for Jon to say.

Her lips curved. “We shall see.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that evening, when everyone else had sought their beds, only Jon and Daenerys remained in the room that served as the dining hall. Three hastily constructed trestle tables took nearly all the space, though most of the men usually crowded around the one closest to the hearth.

That was where the pair sat now, both nursing mugs of a drink Daenerys had brought with her from King’s Landing. “Coffee,” explained the queen. “The Dornish import the beans from Sothoryos.”

“Why? It tastes awful.” It was bitter, though he supposed the aroma was slightly pleasing.

“Call it an acquired taste. I can’t get enough of it.” She took a sip. “If you drink a more concentrated blend, it gives you energy.”

Jon found that to be dubious, but then again, Dornishmen were known to eat queer things. “At least it’s hot,” he conceded. They’d run out of tea a few months ago, so it was good to drink something warm. He supposed it might taste better with sugar, but with those supplies running low as well, he didn’t want to waste it on a strange beverage.

“You'll grow to love it, I'm sure. It’s all the rage in Sunspear.” Daenerys smiled at him over the rim of her mug, the picture of innocence and youthful beauty.

That in turn made Jon suspicious.

After all, this was the same woman whose thirst for revenge had shaped her entire life, and one whose forgiveness was seldom earned. Of the pair, it was Aegon who was more merciful of the two. Daenerys, on the other hand, had no problem sleeping at night despite the blood spilled to get her here.

“I want to congratulate you on the progress you’ve made,” she said. “I understand that the port at White Harbor will reopen soon. In fact, Lord Manderly has told me how invaluable you have been in coordinating reconstruction efforts.”

“It honors me to serve, your grace.” He hesitated, and then, “How's Rickon?”

“He's made progress since arriving in our care. His speech is more fluent, though his tutors tell me he has the distressing habit of swearing in the Old Tongue. But his penmanship has improved drastically, and his manner is much refined.” Daenerys pulled out a folded sheet of parchment from her pocket. “Here, you can read for yourself. Rickon wrote to you.”

Jon slowly reached out and took the letter. Rickon had only been three when Jon had left for the Night’s Watch, and when Jon had seen him again five years later, the boy hadn’t remembered him. It had been a hard blow for Jon, who'd been looking forward to reuniting with his only living family member. But Rickon only knew Osha, his Wildling companion, and Shaggydog, his direwolf. He had emerged from the wilderness a feral child who could barely speak, let alone read and write.

With the ongoing war in both the south and the north, no one had been able to pay much attention to Rickon, who needed even more care than what the Manderlys could provide. It had been Daenerys who’d taken Rickon to King’s Landing. There, he was given access to the best tutors and mind healers in the realm – and he also served as a hostage. By taking Rickon into her custody, Daenerys had ensured Jon’s obedience in nearly all matters.

Somewhat bitterly, he said, “You're very kind to take on Rickon’s care.”

Daenerys patted his arm sympathetically. “You can't raise him, Jon. As the future lord of Winterfell, he needs more than you can give him.”

“He needs his family,” stressed Jon.

“I know it pains you, but right now, he has much to learn. He is more wildling than civilized man, and his experiences in his young life have traumatized him. It'll take much work before he's ready to take the responsibility of Winterfell – if that day even comes.”

“It will come,” Jon said firmly. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

An unreadable expression crossed her face. “Yes…about that.” She leaned back, looking from Jon to her mug and dropping all pretense of casual small talk. “Jon, we've heard back from the Citadel. They've authenticated Rhaegar’s will.”

“It’s real?”

“It appears so.”

Silence stretched out between them as Jon tried to process the news.

He’d spent nearly his entire life believing he was Eddard Stark’s son. And though he’d wondered on more than one occasion about his mother’s identity, he'd eventually moved on. It was enough that he was Ned’s son.

But that changed nine years ago when Daenerys and Aegon had arrived at the Wall with their dragons. Drogon and Rhaegal already had riders, but Viserion was still unclaimed. Daenerys had hoped one of Aegon’s Martell cousins would be able to ride him, but he had refused all attempts at being mounted.

No one had more shocked than the queen when Viserion had suddenly flown from her side to land at Jon’s feet. The dragon’s submission had been total, and from that point forward, he no longer heeded either Targaryen and would only obey Jon’s commands.

Aegon had shrugged it off, suggesting that perhaps others could ride dragons besides those of Valyrian descent. Daenerys, however, hadn’t been convinced. But there had been a war going on, so the puzzle of Viserion’s actions had been put on the back burner. It was only four years later, when people were able to catch their breath, did she bring up the question again.

> _The war against the White Walkers was bloody and hard fought, but in the end, the tide was turning for the righteous. And on the first day of the New Year, Jon, Daenerys, and Aegon met amongst the ruins of Castle Black._
> 
> _Daenerys stepped forward. “The dragon has three heads. I've always known this. I've_ seen _it. We are two, and here is another.”_
> 
> _“He's a Stark.” Aegon’s voice was sharp. “His father helped the Usurper drive our family to ruin. Or have you forgotten?”_
> 
> _“I forget nothing. But his father was no Stark. His mother, however…”_
> 
> _Jon refused to listen. “Eddard Stark was my father.”_
> 
> _“Rhaegar knew the dragon needed three heads. And now we are three,” she repeated. “You were in my dreams long before I ever knew your name. You're the blue winter rose at the wall.”_
> 
> _“If you're suggesting that my father begot a child on that northern whore …”_
> 
> _“Your father kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark,” snarled Jon. “You have no right to call her a whore when she was as much a victim as Elia Martell.”_
> 
> _Aegon’s eyes had gone dark with rage. “You dare speak those names in the same sentence?”_
> 
> _“Enough!” Daenerys, as small and diminutive as she was, possessed a voice of steel. “We will have to examine this matter carefully. If Jon is one of us, that changes everything.”_
> 
> _Aegon’s expression was as cold as the winter they were trapped in. “He will never be one of us.”_

Aegon had immediately left for East Watch afterwards, preferring to manage things from there. Daenerys lingered at Castle Black, and though she remained suspicious, as time passed, she had grown more convinced that Jon was indeed Rhaegar’s son.

Jon hadn’t accepted it at first. Growing up, the circumstances of his birth had always been a murky, forbidden topic, and though it made more sense that a man like Ned Stark would lie about having a bastard than actually having a bastard, it hurt to realize the father he had worshiped since childhood was only his uncle while his real father was a selfish prince whose actions had led to a devastating war.

But despite his feelings, Jon couldn’t deny the strange sense of belonging he felt with the Targaryens. He didn’t like them, certainly didn’t trust them…and yet, whenever they were near, Jon’s heart pounded, his blood hummed, and the little voice in the back of his head kept whispering that their kinship was real.

Things would have remained at a standstill if not for Howland Reed. The Lord of Greywater Watch had emerged from the frozen swamps at the end of the war in order to present himself to Daenerys and Aegon and swear his house’s allegiance. While there, he had presented the queen with a document he claimed had Rhaegar’s seal. As the only living witness from the Tower of Joy, he went over the events that had led to Lyanna’s death. Howland had explained how her abduction hadn’t been an abduction at all, that Rhaegar and Lyanna had loved each other, and that Jon Snow was actually Jon Targaryen, their _legitimate_ son.

Naturally, no one had believed it. Howland was an honest man, but even Jon had reason to be skeptical of his father’s old friend. Aegon had been furious that the marsh man had even suggested such a thing, but once again, Daenerys had proved to be the voice of reason.

It was she who suggested analyzing the document. Though most documents from Aerys’s reign had been destroyed, there were a few that had been written by Rhaegar’s own hand. It would be a simple matter for the Citadel to compare the handwriting. Aegon had gone one step further and had hired alchemists from Lys to examine the ink and the age of the parchment. The investigation had stretched over five years, as Aegon wanted to leave no stone unturned.

On his part, Jon had chosen to ignore the matter. He’d spent his entire life as a bastard. Even when he had eventually gone from being Ned Stark’s baseborn son to Rhaegar’s, it hadn’t changed the fact that he was still illegitimate. It had defined and shaped his choices. And in many ways, it had given him a freedom that trueborn children could never experience.

But it seemed even that was now being taken from him.

“It…” Jon stumbled as he tried to order his chaotic thoughts. “It doesn’t matter. A piece of paper doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t let it.”

“Aegon thought you'd say that.”

Insulted that he’d proven his half-brother right, Jon drew back. “It’s not like he wants this either.”

 “No, he doesn't. However, even a king can't hide from the truth, and too many people know about it already. Not acknowledging your birthright will cause more harm than good.”

He frowned. “How so? People have bigger problems to worry about than my legitimacy.”

She stared at him.  “You have no idea what's happening in the south, do you?”

Jon valiantly fought the urge to say he didn’t give three shits about the south. “No,” he finally said.

The queen hesitated. “Things are unsettled in King’s Landing. Our hold over Westeros is tenuous at best, and despite our efforts, the situation isn't improving. Winter has halted all commerce in the Riverlands and the North while much of the south is still devastated from war. Of the nine constituent regions of our rule, seven have had significant political shakeups since we came to power. Many Great Houses are extinct, with several more attempting to fill the vacuum. And though no one will say it, others are already scheming to remove us.”

“That can’t be a surprise for you – there will always people wanting to bring you down,” said Jon pragmatically. “But your ancestors created a kingdom with even less support than what you have now.”

Daenerys shook her head. “When the Conquerer came to Westeros, it was summer. It was easier to deal with seven separate kingdoms that were already at war with each other. Aegon and his sister-wives had the advantage of being the unknown, mysterious, and godlike survivors of Valyria, the greatest empire the world had ever seen. But now…” she drew off.

What remained unsaid was that the Targaryen name had become so tarnished that even their dragons couldn’t restore their allure. People feared another Aerys, and though Aegon and Daenerys had been relatively even-handed so far, no one quite knew if the madness would strike.

“Aegon and I are doing our best to change things,” continued Daenerys, “but some still refer to us as the Pretender King and the Queen of Savages. Besides Lord Connington, we have no real allies among the other great houses. The newly-raised Mallisters and Manderlys may just as easily forget the source of their power as the Tullys and Tyrells did, so we can't trust them.”

“You have the Martells. You’ve been as thick as thieves with them.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Only a fool trusts a snake. While they've been very useful – and very well rewarded for their services – Doran Martell’s motivations are still unclear. The prince pretends to be cowardly and feeble, but he’s been playing a very long game, and I seem to be the only who sees his scheming.” Daenerys flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve. “I'm still fond of Prince Doran, of course, but his ultimate loyalty is to Dorne, not the Iron Throne.”

“What do you want from me?” asked Jon bluntly.  

 “As you yourself said, legitimacy is just a piece of paper. But your change in status from bastard to trueborn will soon become common knowledge, and for all intents and purposes, you're now the heir presumptive to the throne.”

Jon drew back. “I took an oath, which removed me from any line of succession. Coming back to life again doesn’t change that.” He was being sincere. His death and rebirth had only pushed him further away from all desire of power. “I don’t want to be a prince. I don’t even want to be a Targaryen. I’m a Stark, and no matter what you or anybody else says, I serve the Night’s Watch.”

Daenerys regarded him with narrowed eyes. “No one else cares about your oath except you. The Night’s Watch is no more, your vows are legally defunct, and the places you have always looked to for strength are in ruin.” There was a few seconds pause and a quiet sigh. “Even if it’s against your will, you remain a threat to both Aegon and me. If we don’t take control of this matter now, it could lead to another rebellion against our family.”

“I have no intention of opposing you.”

She scoffed at that. “Easy to say now, but in a few years, you'll realize that your mother died giving birth to a prince. If you challenged Aegon’s claim, a faction would most certainly arise in your support. And that, dear nephew, would mean war. Westeros is already fragile, and any further conflict will shatter what is left of this land. I know you don't wish to see any more bloodshed, so help me stop it before it starts.”

Jon inhaled, deep and ragged. “How?”

“You'll come south and take your place as a prince of this realm. People need to see that the three of us are united, that you stand behind your brother and aunt, and that you accept our authority as the rightful rulers of Weseteros.”

Jon met the queen’s eyes. “If I refuse?”

“You won’t. Refusing would endanger young Rickon’s future.”

Shocked, Jon nearly knocked over his now cold coffee. “You would harm a child?”

“I'll not kill him if that's what you fear,” said the queen, her expression still mild. “But if you want your cousin to have Winterfell – if you want to see _any_ Stark in Winterfell, then you will comply. Otherwise, House Stark will go the way of House Lannister and cease to exist.”

Jon clenched his fists under the table. In that moment, he truly hated Daenerys. “I’ll go with you. Just…just leave Rickon alone.”

“I knew you would be reasonable.” Daenerys smiled, all sweetness and dimples. “We'll leave as soon as the dragons return.”


	3. Chapter 3

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_That which submits, rules. The willow submits to the wind and prospers until one day it is many willows – a wall against the wind. This is the willow's **purpose**. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only six months had passed since Jon had last stepped foot in White Harbor, but the changes were startling.  The city was far enough south that it was still habitable, but many lower sections had been buried beneath the snow. The ports had been closed since the Lannister fleet had attacked it eight years ago, and on the hillsides to the west, miles of refugee encampments blanketed the countryside.

But the Targaryens had kept their word. In return for Lord Manderly’s fealty, they had provided extensive relief efforts and had funded most of the reconstruction. The ports were nearly rebuilt, and he could see that the outer walls had finally been repaired. Food distribution centers had been set up throughout the city, and soldiers patrolled the area at all times, which kept crime to a minimum.

It was the worst winter the North had faced in thousands of years, but things would have been a lot worse if Lord Wylis had not agreed to a deal with the Targaryens. It had proven to be an unpopular decision amongst the other Northmen; yet given the alternatives, bending the knee had been the wisest choice, as it would be many years before the North could function on its own again.

Even Jon thought so, but the frosty atmosphere that had greeted Daenerys upon her arrival at White Harbor indicated that it would take many more years for the North to accept their subjugation – that is, if they ever did.

Currently, Lord Wylis was at the head of a long table set in the center of the Merman’s Court. In the place of honor to his right was Queen Daenerys, who was conversing with Lady Leona. Lady Wynafryd, Wylis’s heir, was on her father’s left.

 Jon had been placed further down but still at the main table. His legitimacy had not been announced yet, so as far as Lord Wylis knew, Jon was the Targaryen bastard. What permitted him a place at the main table was not his father’s blood but his mother’s – the Manderlys had been ardent supporters of both Ned and Robb, and it was in their memory that Lord Wylis paid Jon homage.

“Are you well, Lord Jon?” The drawling voice belonged to Prince Trystane Martell, who was seated next to him. “You seem far away.”

Caught off guard, Jon almost dropped his fork. “I suppose you’re right,” he responded ruefully. “I was distracted – it’s been a long time since I’ve been in such company.”

The Dornishman nodded. “Yes, I imagine that is so. From what her grace has told me, there aren’t many people north of White Harbor.”

“Very few.” Jon took a moment to examine the young man discreetly. Members of the Martell family were often notorious, for this reason or that, but Jon had heard only positive praise of young Trystane.

The prince had straight black hair that framed a finely sculpted face, with warm olive skin and eyes so dark they were nearly black. Altogether, he was very comely, and though he was slender as Dornishmen were wont, strength and agility were apparent in his every movement. There was also an air of quietness about him, as if he were a man who preferred to observe life more readily than he participated.

Last year, Lord Wylis had proposed a match between his youngest daughter and Trystane, an offer that Prince Doran had accepted. It was a strategic move, as it linked House Manderly to House Martell and therefore to House Targaryen. Not only was it further insurance of the North’s good behavior, it also meant great prestige for the Manderlys – after Jon, Prince Trystane was Aegon’s closest male relative and third in line for the Iron Throne.

Wylis had shrewdly married off Wynafryd to Brandon Norrey three years before, which had accomplished two things – first, it prevented outside interference in Northern succession. Second, it reconciled House Manderly with the rest of the North. Brandon’s blood was purely that of the First Men, a counterpoint to Wynafryd’s Andal origins. More importantly, their children would be raised to worship the Old Gods, unlike Wylla’s, who would keep to the Seven.

The Manderlys had certainly hedged their bets well. With one foot in each camp, Wylis had displayed a certain measure of cunning that reassured Jon. He had been unsure of Wylis at first, as there were few who could ever hope to replace Lord Wyman, but it seemed Wylis would keep the North from falling too far in debt to the Targaryens.

However, judging by the sullen expression on Wylla’s face, Jon could tell this match was unwelcome to at least one person. She was seated to the other side of Trystane, but she ignored him, preferring to talk to her Woolfield cousins.

The prince didn’t seem bothered by her rudeness. Martells ran as hot as their sun, or so the saying went, but Trystane had yet to express any emotion besides mild amusement. His expression was serene, as if he had not just been publicly snubbed by his betrothed.

“How have you been enjoying your stay in the North, your highness?” asked Jon, now feeling a little bit sorry for the young man. The prince had come all the way from Dorne to personally escort Wylla to Sunspear, which, given his rank, was quite an honor to the Manderlys.

“It’s bigger than I imagined,” he replied. “Oh, I know this isn’t the usual state of things, but what little I have seen is so very vast. I can’t help feeling a sense of smallness when I’m here, as if this place has existed for so long without me, and will continue to exist long after I’m gone.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw that Wylla was also listening in. Hiding a smile, he said, “That’s a rather dire outlook.”

“All the more reason,” Trystane responded, “to enjoy the blessings of this moment. To think only of what yet isn’t is to spoil what is.”

His words silenced Jon, not because he had won a point but because Jon was attempting to puzzle him out. Like all who lived north of the Red Mountains, Jon possessed an innate distrust of Dornishmen. They were reputed to be sly, ruthless, and hostile to outsiders, more likely to betray than to befriend, but Trystane seemed genuine in his sincerity.

Given the extent of Dornish ambitions, which had been running unchecked since Aegon had taken the throne, perhaps Trystane was more than he seemed. Jon resolved to keep an eye on him, at the very least for Wylla’s sake.

The prince continued, “But the one thing I do find strange are the colors. They seem wrong.”

“How so?”

“I spent my entire life in Dorne and grew up with those colors – hot pink and flaming scarlet, rich purple and vibrant turquoise, and a wonderful, smoldering orange all around me – and all together, more often than not. So now, perhaps, it is all these muted Northern colors that are foreign to me.”

Next to him, Wylla frowned at her own gray dress.

“I could say the same for Dorne,” replied Jon. “I’ve read about the desert, and I’ve seen drawings of it, but I can’t imagine living in a place so hot, so dry, and yet so _bright_ , I suppose.”

Trystane inclined his head. “To each his own, I suppose.”

“Jon.” Wylla had come to stand beside his chair. “You have yet to ask me to dance,” she said pointedly.

He almost pointed out that it was Trystane she should be dancing with, but Wylla was determined to be mullish.

“Of course. Where are my manners?” He stood and offered his arm to Wylla, who took it without sparing her betrothed a single glance. Jon nodded to Trystane in apology, but the Dornishman shrugged easily, a small smile playing at his lips. Jon supposed that after having the Red Viper as an uncle, Wylla’s temper didn’t even register with the prince.

“Can you believe that?” she whispered furiously, once they were safely distant. “He’s so insufferable.”

“I thought he was perfectly pleasant.”

Wylla glared at Jon. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

He led his companion through the throng of dancers. “I am on your side. But so far, Prince Trystane has been nothing but gracious…unlike someone else I know.”

She flushed in shame. “He’s a Dornishman. I shouldn’t have to marry him,” she muttered finally.

“Then why dye your hair to match his shirt?” he asked, eyeing Wylla’s bright blue hair, which was almost the same shade as the prince’s silk tunic.

Wylla frowned unhappily. “He matched _his_ shirt to _my_ hair.” At Jon’s raised eyebrows, she elaborated. “I dyed it just yesterday. I was hoping Prince Trystane would be horrified enough to rethink our betrothal – Mother nearly fainted when she saw it.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But he _likes_ it,” she wailed. “The prince has Tyroshi friends, so blue hair is nothing out of the ordinary for him. He even offered to let me borrow his purple hair dye if I got tired of the blue. And for whatever bizarre reason, tonight he decided to compliment my hair with his clothes.”

Jon couldn’t help it; he laughed.

“It’s not funny!” she snapped, glaring at him.

“It rather is. You should be glad he has a sense of humor.”

“He eats snakes, Jon. Snakes! How’s that for humor?”

“There are worse things to eat,” he said, twirling her around the room. “When I was at the Wall, there were days when rats were a delicacy. Snake is much better.”

Wylla sniffed. “That reassures me on so many levels.”

Jon grinned down at this partner. He had grown fond of the Manderly sisters over the years. In many ways, they reminded of Arya and Sansa, his missing cousins. Not a day had gone by that Jon didn’t think of them, but being around Wynafryd and Wylla eased the ache a little. “Lady Wynafryd would eat it.”

“Of course she would. She’s the diplomatic one.”

Jon had to agree. There had always been a streak of wildness in Wylla, her sudden movements and restless behavior reminding him of a woodland creature. As if a wreath of oak leaves and berries would suit her better than the beaded hairnet which some other _responsible_ person had chosen for her.

Yes, there was something disturbing about Wylla, Something uneasy and untamed, just beneath the untidy surface. Something that the citizens of White Harbor called undisciplined, awkward, and badly brought up.

Just as there could be no doubt at all that Wynafryd had been very well brought up indeed. An immaculate woman with not a wrinkle to be seen on the embroidered sleeves of her gown or the folds of her wide ivory skirt, every hair exactly in its appointed position, framing her face in an intricacy of ringlets which gleamed like polished wood. She was perhaps a shade too tall, as Northmen tended to be of shorter stature, but she possessed a calmness of manner and an air of decidedly good breeding that made her the subject of much admiring comment.

Jon couldn’t imagine Lady Wynafryd, for instance, running off to wander, all alone, into the dangerous bowels of White Harbor’s alleyways, no matter what the provocation. He couldn’t, in fact, imagine Lady Wynafryd doing anything but the right and proper thing at the most appropriate moment. And doing it quietly, calmly, and very well.

Wylla, on the other hand…

 _Learn to bend, as I do_ , he wanted to tell her. _Learn to sway with every wind. Because what happens to winds? They blow themselves out, don’t they? And then – if you’re not brittle and broken – you can get up again. To sway with the next one. And the one after. Like me._

“You’ll like Sunspear,” he said instead. “It might be hot, but you’ll get to ride through the desert, swim in the ocean, and meet people from all over the world. Think of all the adventures you’ll have.”

“I’ll miss my family.” Her pretty face had lost all trace of defiance. Left behind was sadness. And fear. “It might be years before I see them again.”

 _At least you’ll have that chance. Some of us are not so lucky_. “You’ll have a family of your own.” His voice was soft and could barely be heard above the music. “You’ll raise your children so they know where their mother comes from. You’ll teach them to remember.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the day they were due to arrive in King’s Landing, the queen summoned Jon to ride with her at the head of the column.

It had taken nearly a month for them to make the journey to the capital. The snow made travel difficult, and Daenerys had been compelled to stop at every town along the way. _“It is good for the people to see their monarchs,”_ she had said. _“Especially during difficult times.”_

Drogon and Viserion had flown ahead, but the queen’s party was still impressive. Six Dothraki bloodriders and thirty Unsullied had accompanied her, as well as two knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Lymond Goodbrook and Ser Denys Redwyne. Prince Trystane had twenty Dornishmen of his own, including his sworn shield, Ser Gascoyne of the Greenblood. None of them were at ease in the cold weather, but thus far, not a single complaint had been uttered.

Added to this group were Lord Manderly and part of his household guard, as well as his daughter Wylla and her own retinue – her cousin Beth, three maids, and a septa.

Jon’s party included…just himself.

Daenerys smiled at him when he pulled up to her side. “Good morrow, Jon.” She was riding a beautiful chestnut mare, undoubtedly Dothraki in origin.

“Your grace.” He managed to sketch a bow despite being on horseback.

She examined him openly, her glance moving from head to toe. “Much better,” she said finally.

The day before they’d left White Harbor, several sets of clothing had been delivered to his rooms. Finely woven tunics, embroidered doublets, jerkins made of supple leather, as well as a half-dozen pairs of breeches, silken smallclothes, and soft woolen underclothes for additional warmth. In addition, he’d been given a fur-lined cloak, gloves, and even a new scabbard for his sword and knife.

Right now, he was wearing a wine colored tunic and a black velvet doublet trimmed in red, comfortable gray breeches, polished black hoots, as well as his new cloak and gloves. He’d also shaved off his beard and trimmed his dark hair, the wild curls shortened to a more acceptable style. His clothing emphasized his broader frame and corded muscles, a reminder of the physical labor he had endured during the past decade.

Jon looked like a young soldier prince, the man he would have been – perhaps even should have been – had Rhaegar won the Rebellion.

“Lady Manderly’s seamstresses did a passable job on your wardrobe.” The queen’s voice interrupted his reverie. “The ports of White Harbor are still closed, so I'm not sure how they were able to procure the necessary amounts of silk and other such materials for your order, but Lady Manderly is surprisingly resourceful," she added idly. "Of course, after you’re settled, you’ll have a tailor of your own and a far finer selection of cloths.”

For a brief minute, he grew excited at the idea. He’d never worn such fine clothing before, not even in Winterfell. Lady Catelyn had cared little for his upkeep while Ned had been too busy to worry about something as minor as Jon’s attire. He had been the bastard, and as long as he brought no shame to the family, no one had really cared about what he wore. It was Maester Luwin who had made sure his basic needs were met, even though it had often meant his clothes had been of lesser quality than Robb’s.

Once he joined the Night’s Watch, he’d been surrounded by rapists and thieves, so his appearance stopped mattering completely. What he wore hadn’t mattered as long as it was black and offered protection from the cold. After the war, he had been grateful just to have clothing, limited and threadbare though it was.

These new clothes should have made Jon uneasy, and even a year ago, he would have refused the queen’s gifts. Wall or no Wall, he was still a man of the Night’s Watch, and more importantly, he was a Northman. Luxuries were for the soft, perfumed lords of the south, men who didn’t know the first thing about winter.

But the traitorous part of his brain kept whispering, _I’m tired of making do, of accepting what’s leftover, of getting by, of pretending not to care. If it’s true, if I really am the legitimate son of Rhaegar and a prince of the realm, then am I not entitled to such riches?_

Ashamed of the direction of his thoughts, Jon firmly shook his head. “That’s not necessary, your grace. What you’ve already given me is perfectly adequate, unless you’re judging by your own standards.”

“I spent most of my life wearing clothes as ragged as your own. But that life is over. As is yours. However late you are to the family, you’re one of us.” Daenerys sighed and shook her head. “In fact, I must apologize that I didn’t see to your needs sooner. My only defense is that I truly didn’t think of it until Prince Trystane brought it up. He pointed out that you were ill-supplied of clothing and other such necessities, which doesn’t reflect well upon me as your kinswoman.”

Jon’s cheeks were burning with embarrassment. He hated when people felt sorry for him, even when they were as good-natured as Trystane.

Daenerys seemed to know what he was thinking. “The prince’s interest in your welfare has more to do with his Dornish mindset than with pity. He is the most congenial of men, save where the treatment of unwanted relatives is concerned. He loves his baseborn cousins dearly, you see, and hates the idea that some people are unloved simply because they were born into wrong circumstances.” Her expression was mildly embarrassed.  “He felt that I was purposely neglecting you and requested – demanded, more like – that I take action. I admit that I was somewhat short-tempered at that point, so I gave him leave to amend my deficiency as he saw fit. All those clothes and other items you were given are the result.”

“Prince Trystane was certainly thorough,” said Jon, resolving to thank the young Dornishman later. “And sensible – he didn’t choose designs and colors that I wouldn’t wear.”

“He grew up in a family of fashion-forward women. So he knows a thing or two about good taste.” Their conversation then shifted to more casual topics, and she asked how he was faring among her men. Her mood was pleasant, almost light-hearted, and Jon eventually found himself drawn in.

A few hours later, an honor guard of about thirty men rode out to meet them. They were dressed in black and red, with silver armor and polished shields. They proudly held the Targaryen banner aloft as they drew closer to their queen.

At the head of the company rode a tall man upon a white stallion, but unlike the others, he was a member of the Kingsguard. His scale armor glittered in the pale winter sun, an unemblazoned white shield was on one arm, and a greatsword was slung on his back. A long cloak of pure white streamed behind him and was held at his shoulder with a wheel-shaped brooch.

Upon sight of Daenerys, the men slowed to a halt and bowed their heads, each touching his heart in a sign of respect. Their leader then looked up and removed his helm. His brown hair spilled out while his pale blue eyes sought for the queen.

“Your grace,” said the man, his precise accent marking him as Andal nobility. “Long have we desired your return. The sight of you brings us great joy.”

There was genuine warmth in the queen’s purple eyes. “I’m most happy to be home, Ser Donnel.”

He smiled in return, the gesture brightening his homely features, before offering a friendly nod to his brother-knights, Ser Lymond and Ser Denys.

As the group resumed their journey, Daenerys drew up next to the newly arrived knight. “Tell me, how is the king?”

“He is well,” replied Ser Donnel, “and even now, he eagerly awaits your arrival.”

“I too am anxious to reunite with my husband. We have been apart many moons, and I’ve been long away from King’s Landing. Has the Great Council been assembled?”

“Yes, your grace. Lords Marbrand and Mallister arrived last week, Lords Tyrell and Harlaw three days past. Prince Doran’s ship berthed just this morning. He must be at the Red Keep by now.”

The queen’s forehead knitted in a frown. “And Lord Baelish?”

“We’re not expecting him until tomorrow morning.”

Daenerys was slightly disbelieving. “That’s cutting it close. The Great Council will be meeting that very afternoon. I would have thought Lord Baelish would have arrived earlier – such meetings happen only rarely, and he seems to enjoy court intrigue.”

“Apparently, winter storms in the mountains slowed his journey.”

As their party rounded the bend in the road, King’s Landing suddenly spread out in front of them. Jon stopped impulsively, awe-stricken by the supernal grandeur of the Red Keep that rose before them upon the mighty hill of Aegon the Conquerer. Slightly smaller but no less impressive were Visenya’s Hill and Rhaenys’s Hill, with both the Great Sept and the Dragonpit visible even at this distance.

This was the city of the Targaryens. Dragon blood had built it.

 _His_ blood.

Eight years ago, Cersei Lannister had set fire to King’s Landing rather than give it up. Only the quick actions of the Tyrells had saved the city, but not before nearly all of Flea Bottom had burned to the ground. Aegon had vowed to rebuild that part of the city first, promising even the poorest of inhabitants that their homes were just as important as the Red Keep itself. Daenerys had told Jon that part of the rebuilding process included better sanitation engineering – neither Targaryen could deal with the city’s stink.

Judging by the rows of houses and shops that dotted nearly every available space in the city, Aegon had obviously kept his word. And while there still was a slight smell in the air, it wasn’t as noxious as it had been in the past.

The group passed through the Old Gate and then wound their way through the streets, the queen often halting the entire train in order to greet her subjects. The smallfolk cheered her warmly, and in return, Daenerys had a smile and a word for each of them.

On occasions such as this, Jon found it hard to dislike her. Daenerys was often ruthless in her dispensation of justice, but she loved the smallfolk dearly. The queen was the advocate of the poor and the orphaned, even more so than Aegon, who himself was deeply involved in their welfare.

As they drew nearer to the Red Keep, Daenerys pointed out various landmarks, places of interest or historical significance, and even the best food and clothing stalls. Jon was astonished at the sheer amount of knowledge the queen possessed about the lowliest of her subjects. No details were too insignificant or unimportant, and she had no qualms about sharing them either.

But after awhile, Jon tuned her out. He found himself distracted by the foreboding building inside him. Starks never did well in this city – three had died in the Red Keep, and both Sansa and Arya had gone missing here as well. Rickon was there now, held hostage by the dragons, and Jon was about to join him.

Once they passed the outer gates of the castle, it was only a short distance to the inner gate, where several people were waiting for them. Jon watched as the Manderlys were led away to their temporary apartments while the various guards were redirected to their respective lodgings.

At the end, he was left with Daenerys, Prince Trystane, the three Kingsguard knights, and two bloodriders. A somberly dressed courtier had informed them that the king awaited them in the Great Hall, which was where they were now headed.

The closer Jon drew to the throne room, the more apprehensive he became. His entire life lay behind him, a life that had been hard fought and hard won. He felt awfully alone, and worse still, ignominiously small, a sensation he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d been in in Lady Catelyn’s presence. Jon reproached himself for being so easily cowed, yet it was this – the unknown – that he feared. He had no idea where his life would go from here or what would be expected of him. Daenerys had told him only enough to gain his compliance, but now that he was here, he wished he had pressed her for more information.

It wasn’t long before they entered a corridor almost oppressive in its silence. The whole atmosphere was one of solemn dignity, a place in which one would hardly dare to speak. It was entirely deserted but for the two taciturn guards standing dutifully on either side of a double doorway, huge and richly gilt in gold and silver filigree. As Daenerys approached, the massive doors swung open, the guards stepping aside to let them pass.

The Kingsguard and the bloodriders took position in the hallway. The queen entered the Great Hall first, followed by Trystane. Jon paused for a few seconds before stepping inside, the doors closing heavily behind him with an air of finality. He found himself standing at the end of a crimson carpet that seemed to extend all the way to the other end of the room. The ceiling soared above him and was held up by ornately carved pillars, with shafts of sunlight filtering in from the skylights. Along the walls were banners, crests, and other heraldry, as well as several richly woven tapestries. On the dais sat two thrones, both intricately wrought of polished wood and gold. Aegon had ordered the old throne – the Iron Throne – destroyed, and in an even more shocking move, had built one for his queen as well. This was the only place in Westeros – besides Dorne – where lord and lady sat in equal judgment.

But all this he observed for only an instant, for what held his attention the most was the handful of people waiting for them near the front of the room.

Standing next to the dais was a tall man with gray hair. The sigil on his mantle identified him as Lord Jon Connington, the Hand of the King. The tightened jaw and the stiff way he held himself seemed to indicate he was in pain, but as soon as his eyes fell upon Jon, his face twisted in distaste.

Seated on a chair below the throne was an older woman, her rich black hair threaded with silver. Her eyes were a deep violet, and despite her age, she was still very beautiful.

Jon knew upon first sight that this was Lady Ashara Dayne. This woman, whom Jon had believed was his dead mother for so many years, looked at Jon neutrally. She was clad in a simple robe of gold silk, but a strand of amethysts hung across her collarbone while diamonds glittered on her ears.

The other woman in the room was sitting on one of the steps going up to the dais. She was obviously Dornish, not only in her coloring but also in her attire. Her dress hugged her figure in such a way that Jon couldn’t look at her without blushing. The similarities between her and Prince Trystane were obvious, which meant she was either his sister or one of his cousins.

Jon had seen many gorgeous women before. Wynafryd possessed the icy beauty of the North, Val was golden perfection, and Daenerys was delicate and striking. But this woman had a different quality altogether. Not the fine porcelain complexion and soulful eyes, the dainty figure and discreet attractions which proper ladies called fashionable, but a gypsy boldness of coloring and carriage, a dazzling contrast of ebony hair, amber skin, and long, incredibly black eyes – beauty most certainly, but something older, sharper, more clever…

However, even she failed to hold Jon’s attention for long. He turned his eyes last to the king, who was seated on the throne to the right. Arrayed in black and red silk, he emanated a near-tangible aura of predominant authority. His silver hair was fashionably cut, and his handsome, aristocratic features seemed predatory even in the afternoon sunlight. His light golden skin was smooth and unlined, his mouth perfectly balanced, his jaw slightly squarish, the firmly defined chin lending even more strength to the aquiline set of his features. His eyes – a dark purple – were fixed on his queen.

When Daenerys reached the dais, Aegon stood and made his way down to her, holding his hands out to his wife. When she slipped her own hands into his, he kissed them, not raising them to his lips but bending his head, a most gallant salutation.

Like every other person in Westeros, Jon had wondered about the relationship between king and queen. Their marriage had been borne of political expediency more than any actual affection on their parts, and as of yet, no child had been produced from their union. Even as far as White Harbor, rumors surrounding her infertility ran rife. Many wondered if Aegon would go the way of Rhaegar if the queen failed to conceive, though others spoke of the king’s devotion to his wife. Jon wasn’t sure which scenario was more likely, because while Daenerys’s letters had never hinted anything was amiss between the pair, neither had they been filled with any particular affection for her spouse.

“Trystane, it’s good to see you,” said the king warmly. He took the young prince in a brief but heartfelt embrace. “I understand your betrothed has made the journey south with you?”

“She’ll be at the reception tomorrow, your grace.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” said the king.  

The sultry Dornishwoman finally moved from her place on the steps. “Welcome back.” She opened her arms, and Trystane rushed forward to enfold the woman in a fierce hug. Once he let her go, the woman turned to Daenerys and curtsied. “Your grace,” she murmured deferentially.

The queen inclined her head graciously. “Princess Arianne, I’m pleased that you were able to make the journey.”

Lord Connington and Lady Ashara came forward then, exchanging greetings with both the queen and Trystane. Aegon and Lord Connington then proceeded to ask Daenerys for details about her trip while the two Martells and Lady Ashara furtively whispered to one another.

All the while, Jon awkwardly stood behind them. Until Aegon acknowledged his presence, he could not leave, and yet it seemed the king was determined to ignore him for as long as possible.

Resentment bubbled inside him. His cruel and selfish brother had taken it into his head to demean him. But Jon had dealt with prideful kings before, and he knew it was essential that he show him now, right from the start, that he would not be humiliated.

Instinct warned Jon that nothing he did would ever remove that faint smile from Aegon’s lips, nor lessen – by even a single degree – that supercilious arch of his brow. But Jon’s courage could not fail him, for what else did he have to rely on? Who else would defend him or do battle on his account? He knew that he could never show his brother any weakness, could never, in his dealings with him, be humble.

When the king finally came to a halt before him, Jon threw proper protocol to the wind and defiantly met his unwavering gaze. Aegon’s eyes could not have been more revealing; the malevolence in them was enough to cow almost anyone into submission. But Jon had spent most of his life being hated, and the king’s antipathy barely left a scar.

And yet…something in this moment drew them to each other. It was if all of Jon’s past, Aegon’s past, and whatever comprised their painful shared history had congealed into this one inevitable moment.

Everything Aegon had once lost, he had now regained. 

However fleeting this moment, however transient his power, it was his.

“The sons of Rhaegar,” said the king softly, menacingly. “United at last.”

 


End file.
